Just a Taste by Deirdre Martin Read Free Book Online

bastard, whereas Little Ant was a bit more studious and quiet.
    Anthony handed his nephew the Coke and took a seat opposite him. “Where’s the old man?”
    “Home with the baby.”
    “Does he know you’re here?”
    “No.” Little Ant slumped miserably in his chair. “He thinks I’m at hockey practice.”
    From the time Little Ant was born, Michael had started counting down the years until his son would be able to play youth hockey and carry on the “Dante legacy.” Now the time had arrived, and Little Ant didn’t look too thrilled.
    “And you’re not at practice because…?” Anthony prodded.
    “I hate it! I don’t want to play hockey.” Little Ant dipped his head shyly. “I want to learn to cook like you.”
    Anthony swallowed, surprised to find himself getting choked up. He and Angie had been trying to have a kid of their own when she died. Anthony had always loved hanging out with his nieces and nephew, now more than ever since it seemed likely they’d be the only children in his life. He and Little Ant were especially close. Not only did the kid love to eat, but he also loved knowing how the food he ate was made. From the time Little Ant could talk, it was “What’s in this?” and “How do you make that?”
    “Have you told your mom and dad you don’t want to play?”
    Little Ant looked tearful as he cracked an ice cube between his teeth. “I told Mom. She said I should at least give it a try.”
    “That sounds like good advice.”
    “But I hate it, Uncle Anthony. It’s stupid.” The agonized way he drew the word out—“stoooopid”—didn’t bode well.
    “Maybe you just hate watching it,” Anthony offered, knowing the boy had been watching his father play at Met Gar from the time he was small. “Maybe you’ll feel different once you start playing yourself.”
    “I won’t,” Little Ant insisted miserably. “I’ll never be as good as Dad, so why even try? I hate when he talks about me growing up and being on the Blades! Everyone on the team is like, ‘Oooh, your dad is Michael Dante,’ like they think I should play great or something. What if I mess up?”
    “What if you do?”
    “Dad’ll get upset. He’ll think I’m a loser.”
    “No, he won’t,” Anthony assured him, though he wasn’t sure his words were helping. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the pressure Little Ant had to be under with Michael as his father. He doubted Michael was in any way pressuring Little Ant on purpose. Michael worshipped the ground Little Ant walked on. But he also knew Michael had high hopes that his son might follow in his footsteps. How was the kid supposed to tell him he’d rather make meatballs?
    “You want me to talk to your dad?” Anthony offered. “See if I can explain to him that hockey isn’t your thing?”
    Little Ant nodded vigorously. “Would you?”
    “It’s why you’re here, right?”
    “Well…yeah.”
    “Tell you what: You go back to hockey practice, and the next time I see your dad, I’ll see what I can do.”
    Little Ant jumped up from the table. “Yippee! I can quit!”
    “Hey!” Anthony said sharply. “No one said anything about quitting. Your mom’s right; you need to at least give it a try. Have you even played a game yet?”
    Little Ant’s face fell. “No.”
    “Wait until you’ve played a few, and then we’ll see what happens. In the meantime, I’ll float the idea by your dad to let you hang out with me and learn to cook a few things.”
    “You think he’ll let me?” Little Ant asked hopefully.
    “’Course he will,” said Anthony. He saw some of himself in Little Ant’s eagerness, recalling how he’d hounded his father until he showed him how to properly assemble lasagna. And the first time his mother let him help with the gravy… Madonn’ , it felt like Christmas. Cooking was in the Dante genes.
    “What’s the first thing you want to learn to make?”
    “The gravy,” Little Ant said reverently. “The family